


Normal American Kids

by Ultimatum



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Abuse, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24297946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultimatum/pseuds/Ultimatum
Summary: [Yet, it’s still Bro’s responsibility to make sure Dave can make it in this ugly world, just like his own Pop made sure of when he was growing up. “You’re an adult now,” he points out, still looking around at Dave’s useless knickknacks with distaste. The genuine love Dave has for what he enjoys sickens him. It's a wonder they're even related at all, with how Dave turned out.]Dave turns 18. Bro kicks him out.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 172





	Normal American Kids

**Author's Note:**

> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TaO17oRIt3vEl3oPPAge6?si=7edrGCMRQOisN9I7_tqivg
> 
> full disclosure, i have never experienced houselessness firsthand. however, i did base this off a story my mother told me about her own childhood, and my own experiences with abuse. just thought id add a little disclaimer just in case. bc i in no way know everything there is to know about the subject

Before he even opens his eyes, he can feel that Bro is in the room with him, a skill he’s picked up after a lifetime of wake-up surprise attacks. He considers feigning sleep for a while longer, it doesn't feel any later than 10, but he knows there’s no use; it's better to just get whatever this is going to be over with already. And he's learned that from experience, too.

Dave sits up and scans the room until he sees him. Bro, leaning against his doorway with his huge arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable, as it always is. He’s not doing much, just watching him like a total creep. 

“Uh, ‘sup.” 

Bro doesn’t reply until Dave visibly starts to squirm under the pressure of his silence. Kid's just too easy to read. Bro knows it's because he failed to smack that out of him, even after all this time, even after all the effort. Talk about a total waste of his own sweat and blood. “So. You’re eighteen now, huh?”

It takes a moment for Dave to understand through his grogginess. But it _is_ the third, isn’t it? Damn, that's crazy. He's an adult now, and who could've guessed he'd survive to see the day?

“Yeah. Guess so.” 

Bro stays silent, watching him without expression, scrutinizing. It’s fucking unnerving, and Dave hates it. Has always hated it. He’s trying to figure out how Dave’s feeling and he just knows it. He's trying to get under his skin, just like he always is, and he's succeeding. Because Dave sucks, end of story. Has always been a rotten excuse for a Strider, whatever that even means anymore. It stopped making sense, even to him, years ago.

“So what do you want, anyway? Creeping on me like some sort of freak while I'm sleeping.” Dave tries, sitting up completely and swinging his legs off the bed. He makes a show of cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck as he speaks. Anything to fill this godawful silence. “Birthday morning strife or something? C’mon man, don’t leave me hanging here. I’m rearing to go and shit. Just tell me what's up.”

Bro laughs, this short breath of air that never fails to put Dave on edge. Really more of a scoff than anything. He can hear the underlying message, the whisper of the air that left Bro's lips: _you're a fucking idiot, you know that?_ and really, he does.

“Yeah, no.” Bro pushes himself off the wall and moseys over to Dave’s shelves, examining the fossils and bones with what Dave just _knows_ is feigned interest. He isn’t looking his way anymore, but Dave can still feel the weight of his gaze directed right at him. “That’s not it, kid.”

Dave feels something settle in his stomach. Unease, maybe, at not knowing what Bro wants from him this time, never knowing what Bro wants from him, period. “So, what? You just wanted to peep on me like a fucking pervert or something?"

Bro does look at him at that, holding one of Dave's amber specimens in between two of his massive fingers. “You’d think that after eighteen years of raising you, you’d be a little bit more fuckin’ respectful.” 

Dave steels his eyes, biting his cheek to keep himself from saying something that’ll get him slapped into next week. Instead of acting smart with a man twice his size, he fiddles with the hem of his shirt, wringing it in his hands while he tries to let the anger go. Bro's method of “raising” him is why he’s like this in the first place, but he can't just say that. In the end, the responsibility has always been on him. _Dave_ was the failure, he was the one who couldn't get the moves down, the one who didn't get it, couldn't get it. But he can't just say that. The anger, the words, get locked up in his throat. What a fucking joke.

“Nothin’ to say? No ‘thank you for bendin' over backward to accommodate my sorry ass’ or ‘gee, thanks Bro for dealing with me for this long!’ You know, I didn’t fuckin’ have to do _shit_ for you in the first place.”

Dave takes a big breath, then another. He just needs to get whatever this is over with as soon as possible. He's really not in the mood to talk back. He rarely is these days. “Yeah well. Thanks, I guess.”

Bro shakes his head. Like he just can’t believe what he got stuck with. Like he's so disappointed he can hardly stand to be in the same room with him. The spineless failure. The pussy. The weak, weak bitch that never learned a damn thing well without a beating. Bro did his best, always tried to set him right, but he supposes that some people take longer than others to get the message. Dave just never tried hard enough, never worked hard enough, never did what he was fucking told well enough.

Yet, it’s still Bro’s responsibility to make sure Dave can make it in this ugly world, just like his own Pop made sure of when _he_ was growing up. “You’re an adult now,” he points out, still looking around at Dave’s useless knickknacks with distaste. The genuine love Dave has for what he enjoys sickens him. It's a wonder they're even related at all, with how Dave turned out.

It’ll be that last time he’ll see this room like this before it’s his again, though, so he gets a good look. Eighteen long-ass years. And for what? He wonders where he’ll set up his sewing machine, where he’ll end up clearing out space for a nice mattress. Damn, he misses having a real bed.

“No shit.” Dave keeps his gaze fixed on the ground so he doesn’t have to see just how imposing Bro looks in his room, the only place he's ever really considered his own, crappy as it may be. "Kind of what the big one-eight is supposed to signify, man."

“Well, it’s about time you started actin’ like one then.” Bro steps away from the shelves and makes his way back to the door, leaning back up against the frame. Before Dave can ask what the hell _that’s_ supposed to mean, Bro folds his arms back over his chest and tilts his chin up. “I want you out by the end of the day.”

Wait, what?

“The fuck d'you mean?”

Dave feels his body go cold. This has to be a joke, another one of Bro’s mindfucks or something. What sort of answer does he want? Does he want Dave to beg? Does he want Dave to start yelling at him, to prove he’s not some pushover anymore? Does he want this to be a big deal, or is he supposed to pretend it's nothing? That he doesn't give a shit either way? Is this a test? Is he already failing?

Even as he tries to decipher what the point of this stupid joke _could_ be, Dave gets the sinking feeling that this isn't a joke at all, that Bro is serious, and that his already precarious situation is crumbling down around him. 

“You're old enough to make it on your own, the fuck d'you think? I was just goin’ to let you bum it out here forever?”

Bum it out? _Bum it out?_ Is that what Bro thinks this all was, some fucking vacation? Is that what he really thinks?

“No?" Everything is happening too fast, he doesn't even know how to defend himself against this, doesn't know what to say, what he's _supposed_ to say. "But a little warning would’ve been nice! I don’t have anywhere to fucking _go_ Bro.”

“Not my problem. In the real world, you don’t get no fuckin' warnings. You just goin' to whine and bitch and moan when shit happens out there? Go runnin' to your mommy when big bad ol' Bro is mean to you?" Dave still doesn't know what to say, what he can say to that, so he stays as still and as silent as possible while he boils, or freezes, or both, from the inside out.

Keeps his eyes fixed to the ground. 

Bro shakes his head again, disappointment painfully clear in the set of his lips. "Just get your shit and leave.”  
  
Dave feels the humiliation burn through him. He wants to scream, to throw shit, to hide away. He doesn’t know if Bro is just oblivious to what he’s done to him or if he just doesn't care. If he thought he was putting Dave together or purposefully breaking him apart. And he doesn’t think it even makes a difference, not anymore. He surrendered everything to Bro to survive in this place, and even that wasn't, could never, be enough.

“Fucking fine. Get out. I’ll get my shit and leave.”

Bro holds his hands up in mock-surrender, as if Dave is the one being dramatic. “You’ll thank me one day, trust me, lil' man. I’m just doing my job.”

Like hell he will. Fuck this. Fuck Bro. What the _fuck._

Bro backs out, shuts the door behind him, and that’s that. 

It’s not like he’d ever expected anything more, but God. He thought… He thought that… Fuck. He doesn’t know what he thought would happen. Dave shoves his hands in between his legs, begging them to stop shaking. 

Maybe before, he’d hoped against hope that Bro had some decency, deep deep down somewhere. That he'd recognize a line if he was about to cross it and back off. As if he hasn't crossed every line Dave has ever had. But maybe, he'd thought. Maybe. He'd just hoped that things would be different if he stuck it out long enough. That one day, things would change.

But now, all Dave feels is anger. The kind that festers, locked up tight with no way out. He wants to hit shit, break everything, scream, whatever, but he _can’t_. So he just sits in his bed, silent and tense and furious, pitying himself and hating Bro and hating _himself_ for even imagining that things could be better. 

And then he stands up and looks for a bag.

He’ll need some clothes, his chargers, his laptop, his wallet—thank fuck, he has a few 20s stashed away that he stole from Bro a while back—the diaphonized lizard Jade made for him a few years back, and some toiletries. He hunts for some snacks in the back of his closet and stashes those away too. 

He’ll have to make do for now, at least until he figures everything out. He can’t take most of this stuff with him. 

Dave looks around at what he’ll have to leave behind—his turntables, the ones his Bro got him—and feels something in him squeeze up, wondering just where things went so horribly wrong. He wonders if maybe, if he had just been a bit tougher, a bit cooler, he and Bro could’ve gotten along. He could've had a dad or something, as lame and stupid as that sounds. Someone to be proud of him. To support him... Or something.

Maybe then, he wouldn’t be being kicked to the curb like a useless, ugly animal. 

Dave can hear Bro playing videogames out in the living room. As if this is just another normal morning. As if he didn’t just tell Dave, without warning, to pack up and get out of his life for good. Fuck. He needs to stop thinking about it. 

Focus. 

Dave checks around his room for anything else that he might need. While lingering by his turntables, he feels something in him blink out, like a lightbulb or a candle. After that, combing through his shit gets easier, even if it’s just because he’s shut himself down to get it done. 

By noon, he has everything he thinks he absolutely needs, and it’s nowhere near enough. But he forces himself to take the first step out of his room. Don’t look back. Bro is still playing his obnoxious game at full-volume, and he hardly acknowledges Dave while he makes his way to the front door.

Dave stops and stands, watching the back of Bro’s head, waiting for something he knows won’t happen. He doesn’t have any keys to give back to Bro, he never had any to begin with, so what is there left to say? Have a good life? Thanks for nothing? There are so many biting, seething things he can think to say, but can’t bring himself to.

Instead, he stands there, hoping that maybe Bro will have a change of heart, or that he’ll wake up, or that maybe his entire life up until this point was just one big joke all along. 

But that's just his wishful thinking.

So instead, he says nothing. He says nothing, opens the door, and leaves.

The first step Dave takes out to the street feels foreign. 

Like this is his first time ever really _leaving_ home. With just his backpack and maybe a hundred bucks in his wallet, he knows its just a matter of time before the city chews him up and spits him back out again. He doesn’t have enough money for a motel, not for more than a night or two, so where the fuck is he supposed to go?

He wanders for a while, thinking but not thinking. Thinking from a distance, he should say. Like this is happening to someone else in another lifetime, not to him right now. 

Should he be looking into homeless shelters? Is he homeless now? He’s never really thought too much about what happens to the homeless in Houston, but suddenly, it’s all he can see around him, and he’s surrounded in every direction. 

People on the side of the streets, tucked in between buildings, hiding from the slight winter chill. The faces that he’d usually pass without a second thought suddenly seem to mirror his own. Normal people, just like him. Normal people who got unlucky once or twice. He can see now just how fragile his living situation had been all this time, how easy it is to be left with nothing like this.

Dave walks faster, as if he can somehow outpace the reality closing in on him, and looks for a cafe. Anywhere he can sit, warm up, and plan out what to do next. He needs to charge his phone, and maybe do some research. See if there are any shelters in the area. 

He functions, just barely, with the haziness of disbelief to protect him. None of this feels real yet, and that's okay. He's really not looking forward to that hitting him. The longer he can exist in this fog the better. While wandering, Dave spots a Starbucks and decides that it'll have to do. He establishes a corner for himself, plugs his shit in, and boots up his laptop. 

Oh.

The first thing to pop up on his screen is Pesterchum, still open to the group memo he made the night before. To Dave, it seems like an entire lifetime ago. A bunch of other notifications demand his attention, his friends no doubt. Probably to wish him a happy birthday. Hah. He'd almost forgotten it was his birthday, if not for it being the catalyst for this entire fucking situation. 

He opens to June's window first, hoping to pretend, if just for a little while, that everything is perfectly normal.

EB: happy birthday dave! 

EB: can't believe you are 18 dude, it feels like just yesterday we were 12, being obnoxious little shit heads to each other 

TG: and now were practically adults and still being obnoxious little shitheads? 

EB: ugh dave shut up i am trying to say nice things about you 

TG: haha k 

EB: anyway! 

EB: as i was saying before someone so rudely interrupted me 

EB: we've known each other for such a long time 

EB: it is crazy thinking about it! 

EB: and we have both changed a lot 

TG: ill fucking say 

EB: shut the fuck up! 

EB: we've both changed a lot and i can't wait to see how adulthood treats you dude 

EB: let me know how sick and awesome it is being 18 :) 

TG: oh youll be so damn jealous its pretty rad 

TG: i can buy lotto tix and everything 

EB: soooooooo grown up 

EB: did your bro get you anything or is he blowing you off again like a total tool bag?

Dave's fingers stop to hover over his keys while his heart stutters pathetically in his chest. 

Well, that would be putting it lightly, wouldn't it? 

He feels bad lying, but he'd feel even worse making a big deal out of this. What did Bro say, to figure it out himself? He's sure he will, no need to make June or any of his other friends worry about his sorry ass, not when he's sure he'll figure things out in no time.

EB: dave? 

TG: sorry yeah hes being a tool when is he not if were being for real here 

TG: didnt get me shit but whatever its cool 

EB: ugh that guy sucks 

EB: i sent my gift to you in the mail yesterday, sorry it will get there late 

EB: but i blame you rose and jade for having such close birthdays 

TG: dude you didnt have to 

TG: i mean 

TG: fuck 

TG: *not dude 

EB: what, am i not allowed to send my best bro a present? 

EB: (even if he is transphobic hehe) 

TG: ughhh im sorry brb i gotta go self flagellate for a while 

TG: punish myself for my oopsie whoopsie 

TG: but really thanks 

TG: i gotta go make my rounds so brb 

TG: have some other broads to chat with 

TG: you know how it is 

EB: dave, are you talking to other women behind my back?? 

TG: you know it babes 

TG: a guy like me just cant settle down 

EB: what a heart breaker 

EB: lol 

EB: ttyl 

TG: see ya

After switching tabs, he talks with Rose and Jade until he can't bear faking it anymore. He comes up with some bullshit excuse to bail, how typical of him, and focuses on trying to figure out what his next move will be. 

By early afternoon, he has nothing better to do, so he makes the three-mile trek to the closest shelter to wait until they start letting people in. There's a line down the street, wrapping all the way around the corner, so he heads to the back without looking at anyone, hoping no one is looking at him either, unable to stand the idea of such humiliation. 

That night, while he's in his assigned bed, burrowed under multiple cartoon-patterned fleece blankets, which itch like nobody's business, Dave tries and fails to stay cool. The weight of the day finally comes crashing down on him, the severity of his own situation finally becoming clearer and clearer as the minutes drag on. 

Over the sound of a hundred or so men breathing, Dave can hardly hear his own breathing pick up, the panic finally catching up to him. He doesn't know what he's going to do, still holding on to the fleeting hope that this is somehow a dream. That somehow, he'll wake up tomorrow in his own bed, waiting to get his ass served to him on a platter. 

Things would suck, but they would be normal, and that makes all the world of difference. 

Happy birthday! 

What a fucking _joke._


End file.
